ust a personal note. The year was 1946, my parents took me on a 24 day journey to a new world; we emigrated at the end of WW2 from Britain to the Union of South Africa. We left the world of war to find sunshine, opportunity and a brighter future,in Johannesburg. The ship arrived in the waters of the Cape of Good Hope on a clear, crisp winter's morning and my ex-RAF navigator dad suggested that once we had parked our baggage in our very simple boarding house apartment, we should go horse-back riding. It seemed to him sort of an appropriate adventure.
Our first outing was nearly our last. My father came off the horse and smashed his femur. He survived, but was crippled for the remainder of his life. He lead a full, energetic life, but always with a limp and considerable pain. Our very first adventure could well have been our last.
I recount the event because just last week I underwent the current version of the self-same surgery.
On Monday I checked in to the hospital at 6.30 am.
At 8.30 am I was put to sleep and operated on; I received a complete hip replacement.
Six hours subsequent to the surgery they had me standing and taking a few paces.
The next morning I was walking around the hospital and climbing stairs.
Thursday morning I came home.
A week has gone by and I'm (carefully) gardening. They won't let me drive...yet.
The pain is really not too bad and diminishing each day. I am very grateful. I only wish my dad could have known the difference a few decades have made. His scar was the length of his thigh. Mine ,(I've not measured it), looks to be between 3.5-and 4.00 inches.
So help me, I've lost my walking stick, already. I'd best recover it because Alana and I are headed for the Hollywood Bowl on Saturday evening